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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653810">This Is How I Disappear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_the_irohny/pseuds/oh_the_irohny'>oh_the_irohny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherhood, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), POV Regulus Black, Regulus Black Needs a Hug, Regulus Black-centric, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:28:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_the_irohny/pseuds/oh_the_irohny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Regulus enters the cave, he knows this is where his journey ends. He anticipates darkness and pure, unfeeling bliss, but what he gets is an eternity of watching people come and go, and another shot with the brother who didn't care enough to stay for him. Will the two brothers finally reconcile after years of misunderstandings and hurt feelings? Or will they splinter apart for good, dooming themselves to spend forever trying to hide from their demons? [ongoing; warnings before relevant chapters]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alphard Black &amp; Regulus Black, Regulus Black &amp; Sirius Black, Regulus Black &amp; Walburga Black, Sirius Black &amp; James Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the end is where we begin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warnings: semi-graphic depictions of a dude dying; mentions of blood and other yucky stuff; very vague references to child abuse (if you squint); just heavy angst in general.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The basin is ice-cold and rough against Regulus's palms. It seems almost malevolent, as if it knows someone will die tonight. He swallows hard. He knows what he's getting into — he's fully aware of the fact that he will never leave this cave, at least not as he is now. But that doesn't make walking straight to his death any easier. </p><p>"Kreacher," he rasps before he can lose his nerve. "Take the locket. It's time."</p><p>"Yes, Master Regulus." As far as small comforts go, Kreacher's familiar croak is minuscule, but Regulus is grateful for it anyway. It's funny, really, how the little things are often the most potent during the worst times.</p><p>As he hands Kreacher the replacement locket, it glints dully in his palm — a relic of his elitist family, about to be used in a way they would never condone. Much like himself. </p><p>Regulus stares into the glassy, emerald-green surface of the potion. This is the color that has been his home all his life; how fitting that it now heralds his death. It represents who he should be, what's expected of him, and what he will now never get the chance to become. But this color has also stolen from him -- fleetingly, half-embarrassed to even consider it, he thinks of a life he could have had: a life draped in red and gold, running alongside a brother who wasn't ashamed of him, turning his back on the heavy weights of assumptions and duties. </p><p>"Master Regulus?" prompts Kreacher, jolting Regulus out of his reverie. As quickly as the thought came, it dissipates, leaving him trembling, bracing himself on the basin that will soon be the death of him. </p><p>He realizes that he will never be able to live free of the yoke that has threatened to crush him all his life. As a Black, emerald green flows through his veins, and unlike Sirius, he has never carved his flesh away and allowed the emerald poison to spill out until his blood runs red again. Instead, he always allowed the green to rule his life, and as a result, he has been forced to constantly pay the price of pureblood perfection. But maybe now he can make it right. Maybe in his last moments, he can find it within himself to truly live before his life ends. </p><p>Maybe, when he bleeds his last, it will finally be scarlet. </p><p>Trembling, feverish despite the dank, chilly air, he ducks down and drinks deeply. The first scoop is slight electric currents that dance through his jaw, neck, and fingertips, setting his nerves alight. The second scoop is pain, yes, but not unbearable — not unfamiliar, either. The third has him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. By the time the liquid from the fourth scoop makes its way into his system, he's screaming. It's tearing <em>through</em> him, burning him from the inside out, turning him into an empty, shriveled husk.</p><p>He falls through time and space and lands bone-crunchingly hard in an abyss comprised of all his darkest hours. He's aware of where his body is (still in that god-forsaken cave, now fallen to its knees, gripping the stone basin like a lifeline in one convulsing hand) and he can still feel everything in excruciating detail (the jagged stones pressing sharply into his shins; the basin under his fingers, now burning white-hot; Kreacher's hands on his cheeks, forcing that hellish potion into him; the liquid searing down his dry, dry throat, <em>oh Merlin he's so so thirsty</em>) but his soul now lives in a land where everything is the slam of doors, screaming between mother and son, the sting of curses and hexes on his skin, covered bruises, retreating backs, friendship and brotherhood that doesn't include him.</p><p>Regulus bites the inside of his cheek, hard, before the memories have the chance to sweep him up in their clawed hands and sink their teeth into him forever and ever. The metallic taste of his own blood brings him back to reality and he spits onto the cave floor -- it's a spattering of <em>glorious crimson,</em> <em>thank fucking Merlin</em>, tainted a vague, iridescent green around the edges.</p><p>The rest of the potion is drained in a blur of shaky vision, churning stomach, knife-blade throat, spasming muscles and <em>thirstythirstythirsty</em>. He vaguely registers the clink of switched lockets and the loud crack of Kreacher's Disapparation and then he's alone, even more alone than he's ever been in his short, miserable life. Despite being technically still alive, he feels already deceased -- the very definition of a dead man walking, for it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the rolling pain that has made his body its home. His mouth is a desert, his tongue made of chalk, and his voice is sandpaper — rough, ragged, and rubbing him raw. </p><p>Through red-stained eyes Regulus sees the dark waves lap gently at the shore, calling him. They smell of sweet, sweet relief, and although he knows that to answer the call spells certain death, his throat is on fire and his lungs are filled with sand and he's burning from the inside out and honestly he just wants to get it<em> over</em> with.</p><p>As soft as a butterfly, his eyelids flutter shut and he reaches down, expecting his fingers to meet cold, clear water, but they meet slimy, rotting flesh instead. Suddenly he's being dragged down down down and a hundred hands are ripping, shredding, scratching, tearing at his clothes, hair, and skin, and he can feel the flames engulf his throat but his screams sound so far away.</p><p>Regulus screams until his breath runs out and he begins to choke on the bitter, ice-cold water, at which point he surrenders to his apparent fate. No sense in fighting the inevitable. He isn't <em>Sirius,</em> for fuck's sake. And after all, isn't this what he came for? </p><p>As the light above fades to black, he idly wonders what his brother would think of him now. Would Sirius grin and throw an arm around Regulus's shoulders like he does with Potter? Or would he just stare from miles away, heart visible behind smoky grey eyes, full of equal amounts of love and loathing?</p><p>Regulus knows the answer. Blacks don't cry because crying is weakness, but his is deniable. As the tears leave his eyes, they mingle with the black water of his grave.</p><hr/><p>Inexplicably, Regulus wakes to foggy eyes, ringing ears, and a pounding head. His first thought is nearly incomprehensible, something along the lines of <em>ohgodnopleasestop</em>, repeated over and over in a pathetic, whimpering tone with additional expletives thrown in here and there. His second thought is water — in his ears, nose, mouth, eyes, lungs. And dead, rotten flesh; broken fingernails clawing deep gashes into his neck. It's only after a few seconds that he notices the absence of those things, and suddenly he finds it impossible to breathe because there's <em>air</em> in his lungs instead of water and there aren't any dead hands trying to squeeze the life out of his throat — to make him one of them.</p><p>He immediately sits up and retches, expecting thousands of gallons of pitch-black, bitter-tasting, ice-cold lake water to come flowing out of him like a broken dam, flooding the room and burying him under mountains of pale, bloated bodies. But nothing comes and now he's choking on the nothingness, suffocating as if there were slimy hands still around his throat —</p><p><em>Breathe</em>.</p><p>The voice, it comes from the very edges of his conscience, a place Regulus didn't even know existed. He can't trace it anywhere in his memory, but it's so familiar, the sort of familiar that's smoldering embers in the back of your mind. It's soft and soothing and barely a whisper, but he knows it somehow.</p><p>Suddenly calm (or at least not currently in a state of absolute panic), he takes the advice — sits back on his heels, closes his blurry eyes, and sucks in a long, tremulous breath through his nose. Then he slowly opens his eyes. His hands rest in his lap and they're shaking so hard he could punch himself in the nose if he isn't careful — how did he not feel that?</p><p>His vision is clearing up, he notices, and he takes the opportunity to look at his surroundings. He's currently crumpled on a white-tiled floor between an ebony wall and a bed with a thick, snowy comforter. A small side table fills the corner space next to the bed.</p><p>He tries to stand and immediately regrets it; his legs are shaking violently, perhaps even more than his hands. In fact, it seems his entire body is shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. And his breathing is quick, shallow, and uneven. How very peculiar. Regulus decides that sitting on the bed is an excellent idea, which is good because he blacks out almost the second his trembling form hits the downy sheets.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew, first chapter done! Let me know what you think!</p><p>By the way, the story title is yoinked from a My Chemical Romance song, and the chapter title is from a Thousand Foot Crutch song. Both are fitting to the theme (at least the titles are), and both are absolute bops if you want to listen :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the famous living dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PREVIOUSLY ON THIS IS HOW I DISAPPEAR: our main boi had an unfortunate kerfuffle involving a horcrux, a house elf, and some dead dudes, and woke up in a strange place.</p><p>TODAY'S EPISODE: Regulus explores his new surroundings and runs into someone unexpected.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! sorry this took so long; writing this chapter was a process full of metaphorical head injuries. it's quite a bit more thicc than the last one and more stuff happens, so hopefully that makes up for the lengthy downtime.</p><p>[WARNINGS: regulus panics quite a bit in this chapter; tears are shed; semi-graphic depiction of scars (from the inferi); implied self-hatred; just a whole hecc ton of angst]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room, as it turns out, is actually a suite — quite a nice one at that, he notes, and Regulus is no stranger to opulence.</p><p>Upon waking, he staggers into the bathroom, catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, and immediately retches into the sink.</p><p>The world twists cruelly back and forth, back and forth, as he stares at some stranger wearing his face. Wide, haunted grey eyes protrude almost comically from nearly translucent skin. Jet-black hair falls in loose, matted waves over a clammy brow. High, sharp cheekbones jut oddly from gaunt, sunken cheeks. The nose is a hair off-center, as if it's been broken, and the thin, slightly-parted lips are tinted blue.</p><p>But worst of all are the scars. Jagged lines crisscross the face — <em>his</em> face — like lines on a map. They stem out from his red-rimmed eyes like spokes from a wheel, running up his brow and into his hairline, then down his cheeks and jawline and onto his neck before disappearing under his collar.</p><p>Regulus stares hard at the boy in the mirror — the boy who <em>isn't</em> him, who <em>can't</em> be him. He watches, feeling almost disconnected, as the brows furrow and the eyes grow impossibly big and the hands grip the edge of the sink so hard he's surprised it doesn't crack and the chest heaves under the weight of hyperventilation and the mouth opens wide like it's about to scream. The sight of the scars triggers the memory of blackened, rotting nails digging into his flesh, carving into his skin, painting their names using his blood as ink…</p><p>He wants to scream. He can’t scream. He’s frozen solid and either way, he doesn’t think that he would be able to handle seeing <em>his</em> voice coming out of those blue lips and that scarred, ruined face.</p><p>Halfway-floating on the silvery current of shock, he removes his robes with trembling hands and almost faints when he sees what those… those <em>things</em> did to his body. Where the scars on his face and neck are relatively thin and appear to be mostly healed, the ones marring his torso and arms are thick, angry, and raised off the surface of his skin. These are less like map lines and more like knife slashes; they tell a tale of frantic, frenzied gouging rather than the slow, savoring strokes of the smaller scars.</p><p>Disgusting. A disgrace to his family name. He can almost hear his mother’s voice shouting about the outside matching the inside…</p><p>He suddenly feels violently ill. The boy in the mirror slides out of view as Regulus sits down hard on the tile floor and the morning light slowly dissolves as he rocks back and forth, back and forth, to the beat of his own choked sobs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Regulus should be dead.</p><p>He should be dead, he should be deceased, he should literally be <em>no longer alive</em> and, considering how much damage the Inferi in the lake were evidently able to do, it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever that he's currently sitting here thinking about how little sense this makes.</p><p>He paces around the flat for hours, alternating between screaming at himself and just lying on the bed, eyes wide open, as eternities pass around him in the span of a few seconds. As soon as regains the ability to consciously think through the noise, he immediately changes into the highest-collared, longest-sleeved set of robes in his wardrobe — the ones that drape around his body like a sheath, hiding all his worst secrets under a layer of black silk. This at least allows him to glance at his reflection without wanting to vomit, but it doesn't entirely solve the problem — as long as he knows about the ruined flesh that hides behind the curtain, it's more than enough to send him spiraling back into foul-tasting emerald potions and ice on his skin and fire blazing inside him and —</p><p>He abruptly decides that it's high time to find out what lies beyond the ebony door of his flat. This place is becoming as much of a prison as his own mind and it's better to escape one than have the other escape him.</p><p>Cloak pulled tight against his body and hood shadowing his scarred face, Regulus ventures through the door. He finds himself standing in a sort of open hallway that runs the perimeter of the huge, oval-shaped building, which must be hundreds of stories tall. It's rimmed by walkways like the one Regulus is currently on for every floor, each of which are bordered on one side by a wall full of doors just like his — other flats, he presumes — and on the other by a metal railing. At the base of the building is a sort of bustling courtyard, filled with people, such as one may find in a shopping center.</p><p>Regulus hovers by the railing, peering down at the busy square below, unsure of where he wants to go, much less how to get there. He’s just wondering if he can handle walking down several flights of stairs when he’s interrupted by the sound of a door shutting.</p><p>"Excuse me," calls a very familiar, haughtily impatient voice from somewhere behind him.</p><p>Regulus whirls around, squinting at the approaching figure. At first glance, shock jolts through his body as he immediately thinks, <em>Sirius,</em> but it can’t be. The height, build, and long, dark hair is right, but Sirius never walked so stiffly, never had such good posture. Definitely never wore such fine robes if he could help it. He also tended to wear his hair loose, and preferred clean-shaven-ness over this stranger’s carefully groomed facial hair.</p><p>The man is only about ten meters away now, and Regulus fully recognizes him. But it can’t be… that doesn’t make any sense…</p><p>"Uncle Alphard?"</p><p>"Who..." Alphard blinks, his dark eyes shifting through annoyance, confusion, and then recognition. "Regulus? Funny, I was just on my way to find you…"</p><p>"You're supposed to be dead," says Regulus, with the air of unsteady calm that almost certainly heralds the arrival of a storm.</p><p>Alphard shifts uncomfortably in a manner most unbecoming a Black. "Well... yes." He casts his gaze upward and outward, appearing to choose his next words very carefully. "You... don't know why you're here?"</p><p>Regulus shakes his head numbly. Alphard sighs and presses his lips into a tight, thin line.</p><p>"What's the last thing you remember?"</p><p>Unconsciously, Regulus shuts his eyes against the incoming tide of waterlogged fingers that carved his skin, marked him, wrote out chapter and verse to expose all the failures he tried so hard to hide —</p><p>"Water," he whispers, voice ragged.</p><p>"Then I won't sugarcoat it." Alphard pauses to clamp an awkward hand on Regulus's shoulder, holding him at arm's length (it takes everything Regulus has left within him to squash the overwhelming urge to bolt at the surprise contact). "Welcome to the afterlife, boy."</p><p>It's almost as if those words are a spell because it only takes their mere utterance for Regulus's legs to instantly go almost entirely numb underneath him. His knees buckle and he's vaguely aware of Alphard letting out a slight gasp as Regulus grabs hard onto the railing to avoid taking a rather embarrassing spill. Not that this whole ordeal isn't embarrassing — this dizzy, feverish feeling that's sweeping through his body and the way the entire building now seems to be swooning dramatically as if it's being buffeted by some unseen gale serve to make his mental hurricanes even more pronounced. Alphard has front-row tickets to see Regulus Black fall apart before his very eyes.</p><p>"Regulus!"</p><p>Regulus's cloudy vision clears just enough to make out Alphard crouched over him (when did he end up on the ground?). Regulus's left hand still grips the railing in a gruesomely familiar pose, and he realizes with a stomach-churning start that it's the same one he had assumed while under the effects of the emerald potion — crumpled on the cave floor, half-hanging from that cursed stone basin. He squeezes his eyes shut as oceans of nausea come crashing over him once again.</p><p>"Can you hear me? Look at me, boy!"</p><p>Regulus fades back into awareness. The building's violent rocking is slowly fading, and the indecipherable buzz of blood-soaked memories no longer fills his ears — in fact, all he can hear are his own ragged breaths. He peers upward through his eyelashes to see Alphard's hands hovering indecisively near Regulus's robes as if he's deliberating whether or not to actually make contact.</p><p>After a few seconds, Alphard evidently makes up his mind because the hands disappear as Alphard rises out of his crouch. Dazed and somewhat humiliated, Regulus is content to stay on the floor forever, but Alphard must have other plans — there’s a pressure at Regulus’s elbow and then he’s being pulled gently to his feet.</p><p>Alphard chuckles awkwardly, concern barely hidden behind his mask of nonchalance. “Terribly sorry; I should have told you to sit down before I broke the news.” Despite his air of impassivity, his hands remain outstretched, fingers ghosting the fabric of Regulus's robes.</p><p>Head still foggy, Regulus makes his fatal mistake when he tips his head back to look up at his uncle. Loosened by his fall, the dark material of his hood lifts out of his eyes. He feels the fabric drop down behind his head, and just like that, the physical manifestation of his secrets is laid bare for all to see. He quickly yanks the hood back over his face, but it's too late — he sees Alphard's eyes widen in shock. The protective hands that surrounded Regulus suddenly recede and Alphard takes a step back, away from his monstrous nephew who, after so many years of keeping his darkness caged behind a flawless mask, finally has to show the world his inhumanity.</p><p>They stare at each other for a few excruciatingly long seconds; Alphard opens his mouth to speak, but Regulus cuts in before he can say a word.</p><p>"Please, don't say anything." He's struggling to look at his uncle's face. "I already know. I'll go—"</p><p>"No!" Alphard interrupts sharply.</p><p>Surprised, Regulus finally meets Alphard's eyes to find a strange mixture of fierceness and sadness residing there, barely reined in by his natural restraint.</p><p>Alphard exhales, long and slow, drawing himself back in. "Listen… forgive me if I seemed a bit surprised to see you. We are notified when a close friend or relative arrive, but it is... never pleasant to meet a young person here. Especially if they're your own family."</p><p>"No need to spare my feelings." Regulus tries to keep his voice impassive, but he can't help the sharp edge that creeps into his tone. "I harbored no illusions about what you were <em>surprised</em> to see. And I think that perhaps you shouldn't have been." <em>After all, it's always only a matter of time before the outside matches the inside.</em></p><p>Oddly enough, Alphard looks genuinely taken aback at this.</p><p>"What do you take me for, nephew?" He sounds almost impatient, but not unkindly so. "I've been here for two years; you think I haven't seen things?"</p><p>Alphard’s tone is so – so normal. So nonchalant. Not laced with hatred or disgust like it should be. He should be horrified – he should feel <em>justified</em>. He should have <em>known</em> that this would happen – he was the only one who ever seemed to be able to see past Regulus’s mask of perfection enough to glimpse the rotten <em>nothingness</em> underneath. Regulus feels the urge rising within him to make Alphard use his goddamn common sense – to treat Regulus like the fucked-up collection of broken pieces that he is.</p><p>"Even this?" Regulus gestures to his face, voice laced with contempt. "These are nothing compared the ones on the rest of me. Don't you see? They — they <em>mark</em> me!"</p><p>"Mark you?" Alphard scoffs. "Why, my dear boy! Scars do not mark you any more than a surname defines who you are! This place doesn’t care for the symbols over which man obsesses. Here, you simply are. That is how you are perceived."</p><p>Regulus is rendered speechless for a moment. <em>Scars do not mark… surnames do not define…</em> none of it makes any sense. “How can you say such things? Are you not as much of a Black as I am? Scars are nothing <em>but</em> markers, and surnames serve no purpose if not to tell who’s who—”</p><p>Alphard sighs heavily, cutting Regulus off with a wave of his hand. “I see my sister has encumbered you with her charms. We have much to talk about, then. May I buy you a drink?”</p><p>“A… drink?”</p><p>“It does not matter whether or not you were of age at the time of death.” Alphard pauses, glancing at Regulus through the corners of his eyes. "How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen?"</p><p>Regulus bristles. "Eighteen."</p><p>Alphard winces. "Ah. Apologies. Time has a way of escaping a person here if he is not careful. As do the memories of a life rendered meaningless by mere residence in this realm."</p><p>"By which you mean…”</p><p>"Desire to forget, and forget you shall," Alphard answers cryptically. Then his lips curve into the sort of smile that recalls things that should be happy but aren't. "I... know of someone who willingly forgot everything, forging a new personhood from the ashes of a dead one. It's bliss, certainly, and it's a tempting option, but it comes at a severe price that only the truly desperate would pay."</p><p>“And what price is this?” Regulus isn’t stupid – he knows that when someone says a price is great, especially someone who grew up as wealthy as Alphard, that they generally mean it. But he can’t help but wonder… after all, he has been dreaming of such a thing all his life. How wonderful, how free it must feel to forget. To drop the burdens of one’s own mind, to no longer submit to social obligations, to release himself from his slavery to perfection. To no longer bear the wounds of living as Regulus Arcturus Black.</p><p>Alphard studies him, and there’s a not-insignificant note of worry, held deep within the black wells of his eyes. Then he tilts his chin up and it’s gone, safely hidden behind his mask.</p><p>“Well, nephew, if forgetting is of interest to you, I have in mind a much cheaper and more temporary option.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i feel like i should mention at some point that i am abysmal at titles (hence why pretty much all of the chapters are named after song lyrics) and so before this story was This Is How I Disappear, it was known as Oof, He Ded. That's still the title of my main document for this story, and honestly, if i could actually call it that, i would.</p><p>Anyway, this chapter's official title comes, again, from the My Chemical Romance song for which this story is named.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. second chances, take our stances</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PREVIOUSLY ON TIHID: Regulus had his first (and second) mental breakdown(s) and reunited with good ol' Uncle Alphard.</p><p>TODAY'S EPISODE: Regulus is scandalized by Alphard's behavior and adds a new flavor of breakdown to his Apocalypse Bingo sheet!! (this is a nice one though, i promise)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(honestly, I can't think of any "big triggers" in this chapter, so I'm gonna go real specific.)</p><p>WARNINGS: discussion of alcohol; veeeery minor/blink-and-you'll-miss-it implication of past alcoholism; Regulus is just kind of a jerk in this chapter so if you're a fan of uwu soft boi reg.... sorry?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Regulus isn’t entirely sure what he expected when Alphard offered to buy drinks. Somewhere like Alphard himself, most likely – quiet and dark, maybe, yet inevitably classy and probably quite expensive (Regulus pictures a band playing smooth jazz while long-haired men in silk clothing lounge about, sipping cocktails made of eccentric ingredients and casually swapping cryptic nonsense in lieu of normal small talk).</p><p>Whatever his (admittedly spotty) expectations may have been, however, they’re not remotely close to the shitty-looking pub where they end up.</p><p>Alphard must catch his raised eyebrow because the corners of his mouth quirk upward in amusement. “This is the Second Chance,” he says, by way of introduction.</p><p>Regulus coughs to cover his snort. “What sort of name is that?”</p><p>“The kind with no patience for gimmicks or false advertising." He gives Regulus an appraising look. "It only appears to those who deeply regret the way they lived their life.”</p><p><em>Oh</em>. “Should I be offended by the fact that you apparently assumed that I deeply regret the way I lived my life?”</p><p>Alphard only gives him a sarcastic side-eye, which Regulus takes to mean, <em>come on, have you forgotten already how you made a fool of yourself by having a breakdown within five minutes of our introductory conversation? </em></p><p>Well. He’d certainly<em> like </em>to forget, and perhaps even hide under his bed for the rest of eternity so no one will ever have to see his disgraceful face again. But apparently forgetting is frowned upon here. Unless, or course, you do it through the neck of a bottle, within the confines of a seedy, not-at-all-pretentiously-named pub.</p><p>So far, Regulus isn’t entirely sure that the afterlife is any better than the life he left. Not that that was much of a life anyway.</p><p>The inside of the bar proves to be more or less true to the image conveyed by the outside – that is, run-down and quite sad. The space is big and objectively pretty roomy, but the air feels charged, somehow – feels thick, fraught, which makes it seem oddly cramped. People are scattered throughout the tables, people of all shapes and sizes, but all sharing one thing: a certain heaviness about them, a sag to their shoulders.</p><p>It’s oddly quiet, too. Regulus has, admittedly, never been to a pub before, especially not one so… low-class, but he always assumed that a pub like this would have a lot of noise: the dull clink of glasses pounded on worn wood, raucous laughter as old friends greet each other, perhaps even loud, horrifically off-key drunken singing. But there’s none of that; most of the patrons appear to be sitting alone, and if they do speak, it’s in relatively low tones. The tone is not one of alcohol-induced silliness, but almost of somber morosity. All in all, aside from the oddness of the lack of noise and the strangely depressing atmosphere, the place seems like somewhere Sirius and his stupid friends would cavort. Regulus would have never thought that he would be caught<em> dead</em> anywhere near an establishment of this sort.</p><p>The irony of the situation is simply astounding.</p><p>“So,” asks Alphard, “what do you think?”</p><p>Regulus wrinkles his nose. “I think that the air of misery in here is so thick that I could whip it up, plop it on my drink like a garnish, and ruin my sanity even more.”</p><p>Alphard barks out a laugh at this and Regulus’s heart seizes painfully in his chest because it sounds <em>so</em> much like Sirius.</p><p>“Mother would simply die if she ever saw me in a place like this,” he mutters quickly, hoping to cover the clench in his stomach.</p><p>As if a switch is flipped behind his eyes, all traces of laughter leave Alphard in a rush.</p><p>“Well, then,” he says evenly, “it certainly is a wonderful thing that she cannot. I would <em>hate</em> to see <em>that</em> happen.”</p><p>Regulus picks up on the double meaning almost immediately, and Alphard must see the recognition in his eyes, because he pastes a tight smile onto his face and nods towards the bar. “Come along, boy. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The middle-aged woman behind the bar turns as they walk up, and, as soon as she catches sight of Alphard, beams so brightly that Regulus has to resist the urge to shield his eyes.</p><p>“Alphard! Good to see you, I wondered if you’d come in today!”</p><p>“Hello, Fortuna.” Alphard smiles, and Regulus is surprised to see that it’s genuine. “I’d like to introduce you to my nephew. He’s a… new arrival.”</p><p>Regulus once again fights the urge to shrink back as the woman – Fortuna – turns her startling, electric blue gaze on him. There’s something about how she looks at him, with both gentleness and intensity (plus something else that he can’t name) that prickles with unfamiliarity and makes him quite uncomfortable.</p><p>“Welcome to the Second Chance, lovey!” she chirps cheerfully. “I’m Fortuna, as you already know.”</p><p>“Regulus Arcturus Black,” replies Regulus politely. “So… is it just Fortuna, or…?”</p><p>Alphard frowns slightly in Regulus’s direction as if he disapproves of the innocent question. Fortuna’s smile wavers ever-so-slightly.</p><p>“Yes, it’s just Fortuna.” Then her eyes light up again, filled with mirth and mischief. “Makes things easier for me – I’d hate to have a mouthful of a name like you lot!”</p><p>She flashes a brilliant grin at Alphard, who immediately mirrors the expression, his entire face lighting up in her infectiously sunny glow. The change is extreme – Regulus almost stares. He’s never seen his uncle make more than a polite smile or a half-amused smirk, but this is a full-on grin. It stretches across his face, showing off rows of even, white teeth and crinkling his dark eyes. It’s bloody <em>lopsided</em> – he looks like a damn teenager. He…</p><p>He looks even more like Sirius than ever before. The air in Regulus’s lungs suddenly seems rather thicker than it was a moment ago.</p><p>“Right then,” says Alphard. “I think I’ll have the usual, please.”</p><p>“One pitch-black coffee, coming up.” Fortuna nods, then inclines her head at Regulus. “And you, dear?”</p><p>Regulus starts. “Er – do you have any tea?”</p><p>“Of course!” says Fortuna, smiling kindly. “What kind?”</p><p>“Earl grey, if that’s alright.”</p><p>“Are you sure, Regulus?” asks Alphard, turning to face him. “I know the first day is the hardest, so no one would blame you if you wanted something with a bit more, ah, kick.”</p><p>Regulus’s face scrunches up involuntarily. “No thank you. Inebriation is highly undignified, and I greatly dislike the taste of alcohol. Besides,” he adds, “you’re not drinking either.”</p><p>Alphard looks mildly uncomfortable at this, and Regulus doesn’t miss the subtle glance his uncle shares with Fortuna.</p><p>“I… don’t much care for alcohol either,” Alphard says finally, and it seems like he had to climb some mountain in order to utter those words with any semblance of truth. Regulus tactfully decides not to mention that he’s pretty sure this is the first time he’s ever seen Alphard without a glass of wine in his hand, and that he’s seen the man down hard liquor like it’s water without so much as wincing.</p><p>“So one coffee, black, and one earl grey tea?” confirms Fortuna, breaking the awkward silence.</p><p>“Right – yes,” replies Alphard semi-distractedly. Then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “How much will that be, then?”</p><p>“Normally it’d be three good deeds, but for my favorite customer and his nephew?” Fortuna leans on the counter. “Just a small truth.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s easy: I think you look radiant this morning, darling.”</p><p>Regulus almost chokes on the tea he hasn’t even gotten yet. <em>Is Uncle Alphard… flirting? With the bartender?</em></p><p>Fortuna giggles and looks down, blushing. “Oh, you with your nonsense…”</p><p>Oh, Merlin alive, she’s flirting <em>back</em>.</p><p>Alphard adopts an expression of faux offense. “It is not nonsense! Check the register!”</p><p>As Alphard and Fortuna continue their revolting displays of quasi-amorous affection, Regulus slips into his own mind. Uncle <em>Alphard. Flirting</em>. With the <em>bartender.</em> Was this really the same man who Regulus once overheard drunkenly ranting to Sirius about how love isn’t real and romance is overrated and smart young men should just buy something completely ridiculous and have done with it? And of all the people he could have chosen –</p><p>“Here,” says Alphard, interrupting Regulus’s thoughts. “Take your tea and let’s find a table.”</p><p>Regulus takes the steaming cup and follows him to a small table to the far right of the room.</p><p>They’ve barely sat down when Alphard breaks their half-tense, half-awkward silence.</p><p>“Well?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.</p><p>“Well what?”</p><p>“You have something to say. I suggest you say it.”</p><p>Regulus sighs. “You were flirting. With a common <em>bartender</em>.”</p><p>Alphard frowns. “She has a name.”</p><p>“Yes, <em>a</em> name. Singular.”</p><p>“What difference does it make?”</p><p>“Really, uncle, you of all people should understand.” Regulus idly traces a fingertip along the scuffed edge of the table. “Everyone has a surname. No one deliberately avoids mentioning it unless it’s something of which they are ashamed. And if it’s something of which they are ashamed, are they really the type of person with whom people of our ilk should fraternize?”</p><p>“<em>People of our</em>—” Alphard presses his fingertips to his forehead as if he simply cannot believe what Regulus has just said. “You don’t mean you still hold on to that bullshit?”</p><p>Regulus frowns. “Bullshit? What on earth has gotten into you?”</p><p>“It’s not about what’s gotten <em>in</em>, it’s about what needs to get <em>out</em>.” He looks so earnest, like he’s trying to teach some great lesson. Regulus is beginning to think that the sole purpose of the afterlife is to overturn the very fabric of a man’s personal reality and drive him slowly out of his mind with such nefarious devices as bright-eyed, surname-less bartenders who smile too wide and stare too hard.</p><p>“Now you’re just spouting nonsense,” he says needlessly, hoping that by some miracle, one or two of his words will penetrate the thick fog of insanity that he’s certain is currently residing in Alphard’s consciousness.</p><p>“I’ve not gone crazy,” says Alphard as if he somehow read Regulus’s mind. There’s a trace of exasperation in his tone. “But you will if you try to cling to these old values.”</p><p>“Old values? Uncle—”</p><p>“Don’t look at me like that, boy. This world is not like the one we left behind. These things that you believe in so strongly don’t matter here.”</p><p>“You say you’ve not gone crazy, and yet you continue to spout nonsense.”</p><p>“How do you know it’s nonsense?” Alphard’s eyes bore into Regulus’s. “What do you know of the difference between truth and utter bull here? You’re no longer in the world of the living, nephew. Things are not the same as they were.”</p><p>“But—” Regulus tries to think of a convincing argument, but it feels like trying to trudge through several feet of sand – he’s slipping, sliding, losing almost as much ground as he’s gaining. “These are – they’re <em>universal truths</em>, uncle! You know as well as I do—”</p><p>“—that class is, of course, a <em>mortal</em> attribute,” finishes Alphard. “And just what are we, Regulus?”</p><p>Regulus doesn’t answer, because truthfully, he doesn’t know. He supposes that Alphard is right in saying that they are no longer mortal, but where exactly does that put them? If they aren’t bound by the rules of the living, what rules <em>are</em> they bound by?</p><p>“We can all still carry on without placing people into arbitrary categories,” says Alphard softly. “Not everything must be defined in black lines.”</p><p><em>Don’t you get it?</em> Regulus wants to scream. <em>Don’t you see that </em>all<em> my lines are Black ones? Don’t you understand how this place is avada kedavra to the rational mind and crucio to the psyche? </em></p><p>But he doesn’t voice any of that. Instead, he just downs a gulp of tea. The liquid is still far too hot and far too bitter for comfort – it burns his throat and stings his tongue – but it’s perfect, so damn perfect.</p><p>They sit in tense silence for a few minutes, watching each other avoid eye contact through the corners of their eyes. Then something extremely odd happens.</p><p>“I’m sick of all the marks,” Regulus mumbles. He has no idea what possesses him to say that, but judging by Alphard’s raised eyebrows, they’re both equally surprised at the outburst.</p><p>“Then let go of them,” says Alphard simply.</p><p>Regulus narrows his eyes. “It’s not so easy.”</p><p>“It could be.”</p><p>“It <em>isn’t.</em>”</p><p>“Part of learning to stop defining people by things outside of their control,” says Alphard, tilting his head toward the ceiling, “is learning to stop defining <em>yourself</em> by things outside of <em>your</em> control.”</p><p>Funny, his tone suggests that he thinks this is a helpful piece of advice. Regulus scowls and takes another swallow of tea.</p><p>“Don’t be like that,” admonishes Alphard. “Learn to just let yourself live, Regulus. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Only then will you find true freedom.”</p><p>Regulus’s hands clench around the mug, white-knuckled fingers pressing into the hot ceramic surface.</p><p>“You’re quite the poet, uncle,” he says sarcastically, “but is there any chance of you giving out any <em>useful</em> information?”</p><p>Alphard snorts derisively. “Not if you’re going to continue being a cynical little ba—” He catches himself just in time, eyes widening slightly. “Er – I mean – conversation is a two-way street…”</p><p>Regulus’s eyebrow slowly ascends to the point of muscle strain. Of all the avenues he expected this conversation to take – there were many; he tends to overanalyze – this isn’t even close to any of them.</p><p>There’s a beat of silence in which time hangs suspended between the unravelling threads of reality.</p><p>A strange feeling is welling up within Regulus – prickly, itchy, immediately unfamiliar, but he gets the feeling that he’s felt it before. He bites his lip against the rising tides, but it’s no use, the feeling is building, seething, foaming over the sides until –</p><p>He lets out a snort of laughter before clapping his hands over his mouth, eyes wide. Then he chances a glance at Alphard, and the picture-perfect painting of pure frozen shock plastered over his uncle’s face is just so goddamn <em>funny</em> that he can’t help but let out another snicker.</p><p>And just like that, the floodgates are open and he’s laughing – a real laugh; not ironic, not cold, not bitter – and he can’t remember how long it’s been since that happened and it feels like his face is splitting in two, peeling away to reveal some cobwebbed mechanism long-forgotten, and the bloody <em>weirdness</em> of it all combined with the priceless look on Alphard’s face is more than enough to make him laugh harder. People are surely staring now, but Regulus doesn’t care.</p><p>He doesn’t fucking <em>care.</em></p><p>He has finally lost his damn mind.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks to LimeOfMagicLimo for pointing out that i accidentally implied in the last chapter that you still have to pay for stuff in the afterlife! one, it made me laugh, and two, it gave me the idea of the "just do nice things" payment system, which, of course, paved the way for Alphard's flirtationship with Fortuna (and Regulus's reaction to it). also thanks to my friend and cousins for giving legitimate answers when i facetimed them at 11pm to ask, "so, HYPOTHETICALLY, if you were a forty-one-year-old dead man with an elitist nephew and you took him to a bar but he had issues with you flriting with the bartender..."</p><p>unfortunately, this chapter title breaks my emo song naming scheme, as it actually comes from a song that i wrote when i was 14 lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. the difficulties of choreographed movement on a chess board</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PREVIOUSLY ON TIHID: Alphard took Regulus to a very low class bar and scandalized him with his flirtatious behavior towards the very low class bartender. They then had an angsty conversation about elitism which ended in Alphard accidentally almost calling Regulus a cynical bastard and Regulus laughed so hard that he immediately assumed he'd gone insane.</p>
<p>TODAY'S EPISODE: Alphard and Regulus continue their disastrous conversation. Regulus gets unexpected news.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: hmm the last two chapters took me longer than i wanted, i better make sure to get this one out on time!<br/>also me: [literally hasn't posted anything in 4 months]</p>
<p>so i kind of accidentally ended up going on unplanned hiatus for several months... oops... but anyway here's a new chapter! everyone who reads this story, i love you!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Now, Alphard has always been a man well-accomplished in the art of keeping his playing cards tucked neatly in the pocket of his vest. Growing up with an older sister like Walburga Black would do that to a person – with a mind almost as sharp as her eyes, she was always ready to find and exploit any and all weaknesses. Thus, Alphard quickly learned to keep his face blank, tongue between his teeth. It’s just safer that way.</p>
<p>But then he almost called his nephew a cynical bastard. And then, said nephew – Wally’s son – erupted in hysterical, side-splitting laughter, as if Alphard had just told the world’s funniest fucking joke, instead of almost calling him a cynical bastard.</p>
<p>Which is what he actually did.</p>
<p>After what seems like forever, Regulus finally calms down enough for Alphard to try and poke around his head. He searches for the right words that will give him a lead; an inkling of his nephew’s mental state…</p>
<p>“What the fuck.”</p>
<p>Regulus blinks. Alphard curses internally. He isn’t entirely sure what he was aiming for, but it most definitely was not that. Maybe he can cover up – salvage it somehow?</p>
<p>“What the <em>actual </em>fuck,” he amends.</p>
<p>No, that wasn’t it either. Definitely not.</p>
<p>“What,” says Regulus, traces of mirth still lurking in his tone, “can’t find the words to properly gauge my sanity?”</p>
<p>“Well, I wasn’t going to put it like that.” Alphard at least has a small amount of tact. (Usually.)</p>
<p>“But I’m right?” prompts the smirking stranger across from Alphard.</p>
<p>“Perhaps.” Keep it vague – yeah, that’s it.</p>
<p>“Mm.” Regulus nods, then lets out another ragged noise that could be either a laugh or a sob. “Uncle, I normally wouldn’t be so bold, but… what is happening to me?”</p>
<p>A creeping hint of an idea begins to make its way into Alphard’s mind.</p>
<p>“Well,” he says, slowly, thoughtfully, “This place has many effects on the mind. Or rather, one effect with many faces.”</p>
<p>Regulus frowns. “And what is this one effect?”</p>
<p>“In short…” Alphard steeples his long fingers in order to look wiser, hopefully. “Letting go.”</p>
<p>Regulus appears to consider this. “And the long version?”</p>
<p>“You were, ah… hit rather hard right upon arrival, correct?”</p>
<p>A slight blush tints Regulus’s pale cheeks. “Yes…”</p>
<p>Alphard has never been good at gentleness, but he decides to roll his dice anyway. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”</p>
<p>Regulus casts his gaze to the tabletop in stony silence, but Alphard is certain he hears him mutter something along the lines of “easy for you to say.”</p>
<p><em>Countless empty bottles and holes in the walls beg to differ</em>, Alphard thinks, but he doesn’t voice it.</p>
<p>“What, you think you’re the only one who’s affected by this?” he asks instead, letting more than a little sarcasm color the words. “By literal <em>death?</em> We’ve all died, we all know what it’s like to… to hurt. Like that.”</p>
<p>There’s something else, some sort of forbidden feeling, that apparently sneaked into the tone of the last few phrases while Alphard wasn’t looking. He winces slightly — he didn’t mean to be anything more than flip — but strangely, it seems to at least put Regulus a bit more at ease. Alphard watches the boy’s shoulders relax just a fraction as some small amount of tension releases.</p>
<p>“Tell me more,” Regulus says quietly, ever unreadable, and Merlin help Alphard for hoping, but maybe this all might work out after all.</p>
<p>“I can’t say I know this for sure,” he replies, “but I do have a theory, a rather strong one at that…”</p>
<p>Regulus arches an elegant eyebrow, the very picture of polite interest. “Do tell.”</p>
<p>Alphard feels his heart sink. Fuck, back to this game. He had been so close, but now Regulus’s mask is edging its way back on and the truth won’t even have a chance to sink in if the kid won’t let his damn cracks show.</p>
<p>He decides to test the waters. “First of all, how did you feel when you first arrived here?”</p>
<p>Regulus immediately closes up.</p>
<p>“Tired,” he says carefully.</p>
<p>The boy is admittedly a good liar, but Alphard is better. He <em>knows</em> better. And what he knows now is that the mask is winning out.</p>
<p>It’s rather funny how much of Alphard’s life — and more — has been spent carefully thinking every option through, narrowly avoiding the urge to just set it all ablaze. It is, quite frankly, wholly exhausting.</p>
<p>Sometimes rash decisions can be good ones, he reminds himself, and succumbs to the fire of impulsivity.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Everything hurts.</p>
<p>Regulus’s ribs ache from the mirth that bounced around them like a rubber ball thrown by a rowdy child. His head feels tight, strained, and it pounds with a barely unidentifiable rhythm, like an old folk song that’s both familiar and strange. But it’s his pride that hurts most of all. Exploding with hysterical shrieks of unchecked emotion — and in a public place, no less. He was, is, truly a disgrace to his family name. Mother would be furious.</p>
<p>And to make matters worse, he ambles on and makes wry jabs at his uncle like — like they’re old <em>mates. </em>And then he asks Alphard what’s wrong with him.</p>
<p>Mother might cry, too, while she’s at it; cry for the disappointment that is her youngest — her <em>only</em> son. Regulus would join her if he could find a way to allow the tears past his eyelids.</p>
<p>So Alphard talks of the theoretical as if it isn’t carefully prying open Regulus’s psyche, and Regulus does his best to pretend that everything that just happened was nothing more than a dream.</p>
<p>It’s eerie being around Alphard, he thinks – with his tall frame and long black hair, he looks like an older, bearded version of Sirius, but nearly everything else about him, from his elegant clothing to his rigid posture, screams traditional Black family member. And on top of that, he’s showing Regulus more kindness than any other relative ever has – enough to be warrant suspicion.</p>
<p>Regulus wants to resent Alphard, but should it be because he reminds him of Sirius, or because he reminds him of everyone who <em>isn’t</em> Sirius? Or is Alphard even deserving of resentment at all?</p>
<p>And then, of course, there’s the whole Fortuna thing. This new, afterlife Alphard, who grins crookedly and flirts with bartenders and solves problems in ways other than completely ignoring and/or throwing large sums of money at them, is so hard to reconcile with the sullen, guarded, miserable man Regulus knew. The man who blatantly favored Sirius and never passed up a chance to drink is now deliberately avoiding alcohol with Regulus and possibly even trying to help him.</p>
<p>It is, quite frankly, surreal as hell.</p>
<p>
  <em>“How did you feel when you first arrived here?”</em>
</p>
<p>Regulus wills his features blank – not that they have far to go. Learning not to show a glimpse of your cards before you know your opponent’s hand has been a lifelong lesson, and honestly, at this point, he barely has any idea how many cards Alphard is holding. Or even what game they’re playing.</p>
<p>“Tired.” His voice is flat and his tone coolly pleasant, just like Mother taught.</p>
<p>(Exhaustion is a safe cop-out because it is not an emotion. It is not weakness.)</p>
<p>Alphard stares at him – hard, prickly, uncomfortable. Regulus resists the childish urge to squirm in his seat. They’re engaged in a dance, the two of them; a careful waltz of half-smiles and clever turn of phrase, where every step, every quarter-turn, is calculated to the most minuscule detail.</p>
<p>Regulus knows this dance well, has known all the moves by heart for as long as he can remember. He knows how to deal with relatives and family friends. They’re all of the same sort, and they all twirl to the same tuneless drone. But Alphard… despite his tailored robes and his perfect speech and mannerisms and his love of fine wines, there’s always been something decidedly <em>off</em> about him. On the outside, he’s the perfect Black, but on the inside… well, Regulus has very little idea, which is part of the problem. Alphard is not only <em>different</em> (whatever that may mean), but he’s quite good at hiding exactly <em>how</em> he’s different. Which makes him a wild card.</p>
<p>Which makes him unpredictable - <em>dangerous</em>.</p>
<p>Which is precisely why Regulus is so caught off guard when his uncle looks him dead in the eye and says –</p>
<p>“Drop the act.”</p>
<p>He says it so simply. Like it’s so easy. Like it makes all the sense in the world, like it makes any fucking sense whatsoever.</p>
<p>“Wh… what?”</p>
<p>“Regulus.” He’s leaning forward, elbows and forearms resting on the table – an egregious social sin, according to Mother – and his dark eyes, fathomless and unreadable, are still boring into Regulus’s soul. “Drop the act. This isn’t a family reunion. It’s just the two of us.”</p>
<p>“I see no difference.”</p>
<p>There’s no noticeable change in Alphard’s expression, but he leans back, and Regulus thinks he glimpses a split-second flash of something in his eyes – hurt? But then the moment passes and his eyes harden back into cool, carefully guarded pools of obsidian.</p>
<p>“That is… most unfortunate, Regulus.” His tone is slightly clipped — tight, sore.</p>
<p>Regulus just shrugs in response, moving to stir his tea. Alphard’s eyes narrow, he takes a breath, and Regulus prepares himself.</p>
<p>“If I’m honest with you, will you be honest with me?” Alphard asks quickly.</p>
<p>It’s an outburst, plain and simple — Regulus has spent enough time around Sirius to know what one looks like. He revisits his analysis of Alphard’s unpredictability — strike that, rewrite <em>unhinged</em>.</p>
<p>“Depends,” he says after a time. “Honesty is… difficult, no?”</p>
<p>“How so?”</p>
<p>“To judge.” Another pause. “To stick with.”</p>
<p>It’s all chess, really: in a world where information is the most valuable — and dangerous — currency, how much is one willing to divulge? Give too little and the adversary may grow suspicious, leading to mistrust. Give too much, and… well. Anyone who’s been burned before can understand the stakes.</p>
<p>“I see,” Alphard says darkly, beginning to look rather irritated. “Tell me, nephew, is there <em>anyone</em> you trust?”</p>
<p>Funny he should mention that. There are many people Regulus trusts to behave in certain ways — Alphard to be shifty, Mother to be volatile, Sirius to be a fucking dumbass, always. Father to pull a disappearing act at opportune times. Aunt Druella to laugh too loud after not enough wine and Uncle Cygnus to press his lips tightly together at the mention of Andromeda’s romantic decisions. The entire family on a broader scale to be… well, to put it mildly, entirely dysfunctional.</p>
<p>But Regulus knows what Alphard means, and the answer would have to be no. Everyone wants something, and most people would do anything to get it, even if it means knives in the backs of their closest friends. If there’s anything of which Regulus is certain, it’s that relationships, no matter how strong, are dust in the face of desire.</p>
<p>“No,” he says simply, because there really <em>isn’t </em>anyone he trusts implicitly. Not even himself.</p>
<p>(<em>Especially</em> not himself.)</p>
<p>Alphard looks like he can’t decide whether to be angry or disappointed. Regulus knows the feeling.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Months pass and there’s an uneasy rhythm to his undeath. Pace the flat until he wants to tear his hair out, and then wander the common area until the smothering crowds make him want to die all over again. Sometimes he draws what he sees, sometimes he just sits in the shadows and wonders what it would be like to be someone else; anyone but himself. It’s not the greatest existence, but at least the night terrors stop. Somewhat.</p>
<p>And then the whole thing is completely disrupted by two little slips of parchment.</p>
<p>The first one is surprisingly easy. It’s quite the innocuous little thing: just a scrap, really, adorned with neat but modest handwriting. It’s barely the size of two fingers, stuck neatly to his door one afternoon. A curt message, written in small, tidy script:</p>
<p>
  <em>Orion Black has arrived.</em>
</p>
<p>And an apartment number.</p>
<p>Regulus should go visit, like Alphard did for him. That would be the proper thing to do, the expected thing.</p>
<p>He doesn’t go.</p>
<p>Instead, he succumbs to the paralysis creeping through his limbs and does nothing. Then he doesn’t step foot outside his apartment for the next two weeks, dizzy from anxiety and wrongdoing and Mother’s voice shrieking in his mind and… some strange, heady rush. The freedom of imperfection is both unfamiliar and oddly exhilarating and Merlin, is <em>this</em> what Sirius was always on about?</p>
<p>They had always been such a stellar duo: Regulus, the ice-cold marble statue of a perfect son; and the numbness that kept him from shattering into dust. But there is something — <em>more than just something </em>— to be said for… whatever this is. It feels… good. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt like that.</p>
<p>He feels his lips quirk up into a smile, a <em>real</em> smile, and he doesn’t stop it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter title doesn't even come from any song... who am i... what have i become...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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